Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  She was watching him, trying to gauge his interest.

  ‘Pooh.’ Donaldson blew out his cheeks. ‘Interest rates. Tell me about it.’ He wafted a plump little hand, Rolex still exposed. ‘I can get you a lot more than that, Mrs Gunn.’ He’d taken a quick glance at her ring finger. ‘And tax-free.’

  She put her elbows on the table in spite of hearing her mother’s staccato ‘tut tut’ quite distinctly in her ear. ‘What are your charges, Mr Donaldson?’

  He wasn’t in the least bit fazed by her bluntness. ‘Ten, twelve per cent,’ he said quickly, eyeing her to gauge her reaction. ‘Depends.’

  She nodded. ‘Over?’

  ‘Three years minimum.’

  ‘And if I need access to funds?’

  All the time she was trying to imagine Gina Marconi dealing with this guy. How had he fixed a hold over her? How had he put her in a position where she would choose death knowing what legacy her decision would leave behind? Wounds that would never heal.

  And then she caught a whiff of it, in the way Donaldson was eyeing her up. Speculatively, greedily. Not because he wanted sex with her but because he wanted her money. She had hinted at fifty K but let him think there was plenty more where that had come from. He was a man who would always want something out of a woman.

  When he had looked at Gina, what had he wanted? Oh, Mr Donaldson, she thought. You are giving yourself away.

  But the question was stubborn. How had he done it, gained control over a woman with such experience of criminals? Or had it been that very experience that had let her down, tripped her up? Had she thought she could handle it without realizing how deep the waters were? Had she paddled right out of her depth?

  She met Donaldson’s dark gaze and felt he was being just as speculative as she was. ‘Why are you really here, Martha Gunn?’ His voice was oily smooth, menacing.

  That was when two things happened simultaneously. The door to the restaurant swung open and Simon Pendlebury walked in, but just before that she had felt a chilling, paralysing fear. Donaldson was on to her and she had no defence. Except …

  Simon was leaning against the bar, pretending not to know her or see her. Instead he was ordering a drink and flirting with the waitress.

  His very presence gave Martha confidence. She decided to play it straight. ‘You knew Gina Marconi.’

  The look he tossed back at her was mocking. ‘I didn’t realize a coroner’s remit was so broad or so detailed.’

  So, the gloves were off.

  ‘My remit,’ she said, deliberately averting her eyes from Simon, ‘is to find out why a beautiful, clever young woman with everything to live for gets up in the middle of the night, puts her clothes on, leaves her mobile phone by the side of the bed and drives into a wall at speed, destroying her life and the lives of those who loved her.’

  His response was unfazed, mocking and chilling. ‘Who knows?’

  She didn’t answer.

  He regarded her steadily and then gave a little smirk. ‘An interesting evening,’ he said and stood up. ‘I’ll pay the bill on the way out,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Martha simply smiled. It was stupid but she felt she had one over on him because he might know who she was but he hadn’t realized Simon was keeping an eye on her. Or had he? He’d left pretty abruptly and soon after Simon had arrived.

  Simon wandered across, mischief in his eyes. ‘Abandoned, Martha?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said. ‘He was right on to me and I’ve learnt nothing.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘He’s learnt more about me,’ she said. ‘He knew exactly who I was and what I was after.’

  ‘But you’ve rattled him?’

  ‘I’d like to think so but I very much doubt it.’

  Outside the restaurant they heard a car rev up and speed away.

  FORTY-ONE

  After Ivor Donaldson left The Granary, Simon glanced at Martha awkwardly. ‘Don’t suppose you need babysitting now?’

  She shook her head. They had a quick drink together and parted, Simon still, apparently, in happy-happy mood. Outside he kissed her lightly on the cheek; she climbed into her car and he into his, waving through the open window as he navigated the narrow archway back out on to the road.

  Back at the White House, Sam’s car wasn’t in the drive; Sukey’s red Mini was parked in exactly the same place as it had been three hours before when Martha had left.

  There was no sound from their rooms.

  Martha returned downstairs and sat with a goodnight glass of wine, thinking to herself. It was at moments like this, the house quiet, Sam and Sukey safe, that she allowed herself to dream. The log-burning stove was still alight and she put another log on it, watched the sparks drift upwards, kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet underneath her on the generously sized sofa.

  There was plenty to occupy her mind but sometimes in the day events jumbled themselves together – the two suicides, Erica Randall’s death. She still didn’t know what the post-mortem and subsequent results would prove. Probably inconclusive, she thought glumly. Then there was Sukey’s awkward relationship, Sam and his emerging rather belatedly into adulthood. In the quiet of her home and an empty room she could put things into perspective, fit the puzzles together, analyse each event separately. See a way through.

  These were her treasured times, the times when she felt truly at peace.

  She heard the front door open and close very gently. Sam walked into the room. ‘Hi,’ he said. He had a mark of very pink lipstick on his left cheek and a suspicion of more around his mouth. Martha smiled up at him and he came and sat in the chair beside her as she’d hoped he would. She felt a wave of affection for this lovely young man – her son who always reminded her of Martin. He was so like his father.

  ‘Did you have a good night?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He scratched his head, rubbed his cheek, smeared the lipstick. ‘Yeah. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Go anywhere nice?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘A film and then on to Nando’s. You know – nowhere special. And you?’

  ‘Even less special,’ she admitted. ‘Dinner, which didn’t quite materialize, with a financial advisor.’

  Sam looked appalled. ‘God, that sounds awful. Really boring.’

  She laughed. ‘It was rather, except Simon Pendlebury turned up thinking he was my knight in shining armour.’

  Sam made a face.

  ‘You don’t like him?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Do you?’

  She gave a smothered yawn. ‘Put it like this,’ she said, setting the now-empty wine glass down on the table. ‘He’s beginning to grow on me.’

  Sam gave a wise nod as though he was some ancient guru who understood these things.

  ‘And now,’ she said, rising, ‘it’s time for me to go to bed. I’m interviewing a young lad in the morning who’s lost his mother. And I have an inquest on another boy.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Sam responded. ‘I’d hate to do your job. Always dealing with death.’

  ‘I don’t see it like that. And you?’

  ‘Training,’ he said, ‘and more training. The new manager’s keen on us upping our fitness levels so we’re expected to turn up for every single training session. He’s very ambitious.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s paying off, though.’

  Sam nodded, serious now. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Stoke City are back where they belong, in the Premier League. But you know what they say – the higher you climb …’

  ‘Mm. And don’t forget the other cheery mantra. Those whom the Gods wish to destroy . . .’

  Sam nodded then looked away. ‘People think it must be wonderful – life in the fast lane – but …’ He suddenly looked affronted. ‘Do you know?’

  She put her head to one side.

  ‘Someone on Twitter said how they hated my freckles.’

  She gave a sigh and smothered a giggle.

  ‘I can’t help having freckles.’
r />   ‘No.’

  ‘You know what pisses me off, Mum?’

  She nodded. She already knew.

  Why was one twin so perfect while the other shouldered the flaws for both of them? To which there was no answer. She merely gave him a hug. ‘Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Wednesday, 19 April, 9.30 a.m.

  Rather unexpectedly, considering she’d been rumbled, Ivor Donaldson rang Martha in the morning asking if she’d come to any decision about the investments. ‘Not yet,’ she said, stalling him for now. ‘I need to think about it.’ She couldn’t work him out. Surely as he knew who she was he must have realized the investments story was simply a ruse to speak to him?

  She could, she knew, have asked Simon for advice. If anyone understood the complexities of financial management and investment he surely did, but she’d pestered him enough for now. Leave him alone.

  Eleven o’clock brought Terence Marconi in with his grandmother. Bridget appeared to have recovered some of her equilibrium. She was smartly dressed in a pair of well-fitting black trousers and a black and white striped sweater. She wore little jewellery but her air of dignity suited her. Terence was in his school uniform, dark blue and black. He looked less self-conscious this time but clung to his grandmother’s hand as though she was a lifeline and he was about to drown. He gave Martha a tentative smile, met her eyes for a while longer than he needed to. Was she imagining a surreptitious message from an eight-year-old?

  Martha decided she should take her cue from Bridget, who spent some time sitting down in the chair, fiddling with her handbag straps, removing her jacket, generally fussing and stalling. Finally she was still and looking across at Martha. Then she gave her a bittersweet smile.

  ‘Terence and I have had a talk,’ she began. The boy was taking his cue from his grandmother. He gripped her hand even tighter.

  Bridget bent down and opened the fastening on her handbag, pulled out an A4 brown envelope. Martha already knew what it would contain. She met Bridget’s eyes. Bridget nodded and Terence looked at the floor. They were both waiting for her to look at the pictures. She pulled them out – three photographs – and the contents made her gasp. If that was Gina she was practically unrecognizable. She looked like a …

  Martha met Bridget’s eyes but Gina’s mother simply nodded.

  ‘It rather explains things, doesn’t it?’

  Gina was wearing scraps of garments, bits of cheap red satin, nipples exposed, tiny bit of lace, split at the crotch, her dark pubic hair visible, making the picture even more obscene.

  In the second photograph, her legs splayed, Gina looked drunk, with wet, whorish lips. The man with her was at the point of penetration, Gina’s legs wrapped around him, urging him on. The detail was remarkable and intrusive. Full colour. What had they given her to make her like this? Cocaine? Rohypnol? Ecstasy? Alcohol? Worst of all she was wearing her barrister’s wig, lopsided in a parody of her court appearances. She could never have worked as a barrister again. The pictures could not have been more damning. They were awful. Lipstick smeared on like jam on a toddler’s face, legs apart like a desperate whore. What had turned her into that?

  Who had been behind the shutter? Or had the camera been set up remotely?

  And Martha could see every pornographic detail in glorious Technicolor.

  She moved to the next one. Gina, wearing different scraps of clothing this time. So there had been more than one occasion. She was on her knees, her mouth closed around … She could only see the man’s torso, slim, muscular, skin tone a light coffee.

  Martha looked away.

  But she was being asked to look at them and understand. Not turn away but face it.

  So … what now?

  She looked at each of the photographs again and then slipped them back in the envelope, looked across at Bridget. And the three of them – even if Terence was only eight and they had kept the worst of the pictures from him – all knew the contents of the envelope would have destroyed everything Gina Marconi had held dear: lover, mother, son, profession. If the tabloids had got hold of these, even with modesty strips over the most explicit bits, Julius’s career too would have gone down the plughole unless he had distanced himself from her post-haste.

  Someone had planned this. They had set her up and recorded the occasion.

  Martha thought back to the man in the picture. He had a body that would create waves on the internet. Muscular. Olive skinned. Black or very dark brown curly hair. Possibly Moroccan? Algerian? Even Italian? You couldn’t see his face but his body was enough. Physique powerful. But who was he?

  Bridget answered her silent question. ‘We don’t know him,’ she said while Terence shook his head, mute.

  ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’ The boy’s expression was disgust.

  ‘Someone set this up,’ Martha said. ‘They wanted to destroy your daughter.’

  Terence was now fighting to hold back the tears. ‘Mum,’ he said. It was all he could manage and that one appeal made Martha realize she owed something to him and to his grandmother.

  Question: Is a coroner a sort of avenging angel?

  Answer: Sometimes.

  ‘May I keep these?’

  Bridget nodded.

  ‘Would you mind if I let the police see them?’

  Bridget shook her head.

  Martha reached out with two hands, one on each of their shoulders. ‘We can suppress this,’ she said. ‘It need not come out in the inquest. There’s no point and it would defeat your daughter’s last hope. For privacy and dignity.’

  Bridget let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Thank God,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been very brave and … very trusting bringing these to me. Thank you.’

  Bridget hadn’t finished. ‘The little boy? Patrick – the one who jumped off the A5 bridge?’

  Martha nodded.

  ‘And the policeman’s wife?’

  Startled now, Martha could hardly make any response. She was frozen – paralysed. ‘I read in the paper,’ Bridget continued, ‘that they thought she was mentally unbalanced and threw herself downstairs deliberately.’ Her eyes were watchful. ‘I wondered if there was a connection.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  FORTY-THREE

  To have any chance of suppressing this vile pornography, Martha needed to know who the man in the pictures was. At one time she could have clicked her fingers and Alex would have identified him within minutes. But …

  She needed to be resourceful.

  So she picked up the phone, spoke to Curtis Thatcher and described the man in the pictures, without giving away any detail. ‘Do you know of anyone fitting that description?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘It certainly doesn’t sound like Lewinski.’

  ‘I didn’t think it fitted his description.’

  ‘Do you think it’s important? Does it have any bearing on Gina’s …’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘It might. I think so. I have some photographs of them together.’ No need to enlarge.

  He was hesitant for a moment, as though thinking. Then he added, ‘She did have a couple of funny phone calls in those last few days. She’d shut the door so I couldn’t overhear. But that’s not unusual. Clients have a right to privacy. I didn’t intrude.’ And Martha could hear his regret, that maybe he should have done, that maybe that intervention could have saved her life.

  How?

  The word stumped in angrily and clumped away down the corridor of regret.

  When she had seen the pictures Gina had known, as Martha understood now. Her life was over. It wasn’t just the pictures – it was that lascivious look of relish, captured so graphically, that had made her face look so dissolute, so debauched. Yet recognizable. The horrible, tacky scraps of material, a bra with holes for the nipples, a G-string. Cheap, nasty. The barrister’s wig. Those pictures, she knew, would have flashed around social media quicker than the speed of
light, circumventing the world in the time it took to blink an eye, making her a pariah to everyone. The Have you seen …? which lasts for a minute and the 100,000 shares which ensures it lasts a lifetime.

  Her mood was sober as she put the phone down. It immediately rang again. And the voice was so familiar it made her heart skip.

  ‘Martha.’

  ‘Alex?’

  They spoke simultaneously.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry about your wife.’

  It was Alex who put the conversation back to one-to-one rules. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’ But there was a distance in his voice that had never been there before – even in their early days of working together. It was as though moss had grown over a wall, concealing the stones and the cracks between, smoothing over rough surfaces with polite exchanges.

  ‘I understand that you made a suggestion to Mark Sullivan.’

  ‘I did.’

  Silence.

  ‘It appears you were right.’

  One of the times when she could feel no joy in being right.

  ‘I …’ He couldn’t say it, instead switching subject. ‘The funeral’s next Thursday.’ A pause. ‘I don’t suppose many people will attend. Erica didn’t have many friends.’

  And because Martha had so much she wanted to say to him she continued on the same vein. ‘No family?’

  ‘Her mother, of course. Her father left years ago. I don’t have contact details for him. A sister who couldn’t stand her and two elderly grandparents who are so demented they probably wouldn’t know whose funeral they were attending.’ It was an attempt at a joke. ‘Erica was tricky, you know.’

  ‘Yes – you’ve said.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘No.’

  Alex briefly cleared his throat. It sounded an apology for what he was about to say next. ‘This is so difficult. I wish we could speak face-to-face. I’m no good on the phone.’

  Martha paused before responding. She had so much to say to him and similarly felt she could not speak. When she did find the words they were the wrong ones. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to meet up, Alex. Not right now, anyway. I mean, our …’ She stumbled over the word but blundered on regardless: ‘Friendship. That was the reason I asked David Steadman to look into Erica’s death and handle the inquest. It wouldn’t have been fair.’ It burst out of her then. Unrehearsed, spontaneous, heartfelt. ‘I couldn’t have been impartial, Alex. You must know that.’